Ten-pound Tyrant

Carolyn J. Rose

I live with a ten-pound tyrant.

If there is a dog out there with a stronger sense of entitlement and privilege than Max the Maltese, I’ve yet to meet that canine.

 I’ve shared space and time with a dozen dogs over the years. Every one of them would seek me out and relax against me for a hug or a cuddle. Not Max. He doesn’t cuddle and, unless he’s hungry or wants to go out, doesn’t look for me at all. He hangs with the Y chromosome guys. If there are no men around, he makes himself comfortable in the basement man cave and waits for one to appear.

Even after nine years of this, I still try to win him over. I offer full-body massages, ear scratches, tummy rubs, and treats. Like a potentate receiving tribute from his subjects, he accepts it all as if it’s no more than what’s due to a dog in his lofty position.

There are days, perhaps 50% of them, when he condescends to lick my nose when I ask for a kiss after getting him into his harness and clipping on the leash in preparation for a walk. But he offers only a single lick. On other days I get the thousand-yard stare. Occasionally I decide to wait him out and stare back. One day out of 20, perhaps in the spirit of noblesse oblige, he relents and delivers the barest tongue-tip of a lick. Nineteen days out of 20, I cave and we go out the door.

And yet I come back for more—although I often ask myself why. In the course of my life I’ve walked away from several unbalanced relationships like this one. But this little guy has his paws around my heart. All he has to do is cock his head and give me the doggie equivalent of a smile and he’s guaranteed himself another week of excusing his refusal to obey my commands and overlooking his snubs.

So I work with what I have. And I make what I have work for me. I use Max as a model for Cheese Puff, the scruffy orange mutt from my Subbing isn’t for Sissies mystery series. In appearance, they’re nothing alike, but their attitudes and actions are similar.

And, okay, they’re similar because I transfer fact to fiction. But according to the fine print on my poetic license, I’m allowed to do that.